The Age of Reason (37 page)

The telephone-bell rang beneath her fingers, she clutched the receiver.

‘Hullo!’ she said. ‘Hullo! Is that Daniel?’

‘Yes,’ said the fine, calm voice. ‘Who is that speaking?’

‘Marcelle.’

‘Good morning, my dear Marcelle.’

‘Good morning,’ said Marcelle. Her heart was thumping heavily.

‘Did you sleep well?’ — deep down within her the grave voice echoed — oh the exquisite pain of it! ‘I left you terribly late last evening, Mme Duffet will be furious. But I hope she didn’t know.’

‘No,’ gasped Marcelle, ‘she didn’t know. She was fast asleep when you left...’

‘And you?’ insisted the gentle voice. ‘Did you sleep?’

‘I? Well — not badly. I’m rather nervy, you know.’

Daniel laughed, a lovely, luscious laugh; a delicate and melodious laugh. Marcelle felt a little easier.

‘You mustn’t get nervy,’ said he, ‘everything went very well.’

‘Everything... Is that true?’

‘It is. Even better than I hoped. We have never really appreciated Mathieu, my dear Marcelle.’

Marcelle felt a stab of harsh remorse. And she said: ‘I quite agree. We never did appreciate him, did we?’

‘He pulled me up at the very start,’ said Daniel. ‘He said that he quite understood that something had gone wrong, and that this had been on his mind all yesterday.’

‘You... you told him that we had been seeing each other?’ asked Marcelle, in a strangled voice.

‘Of course,’ said Daniel, with astonishment. ‘Wasn’t that what we agreed?’

‘Yes... yes... how did he take it?’

Daniel appeared to hesitate: ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Definitely, very well. At first he wouldn’t believe it...’

‘I expect he said — “Marcelle tells me everything.”’

‘He did’ — Daniel seemed amused — ‘he said it in so many words.’

‘Daniel!’ said Marcelle. ‘I feel rather remorseful.’

Again she heard the deep, exultant laugh. ‘Ah well, and so does he. He departed in a torment of remorse. If you are both in that sort of mood, I should like to be concealed somewhere in your room when he
sees
you: it looks like being a delightful scene.’

He laughed again, and Marcelle thought with humble gratitude: ‘He’s making fun of me.’ But the voice had resumed its gravity, and the receiver vibrated like an organ.

‘No, seriously, Marcelle, everything is going as well as possible: I am so glad for your sake. He didn’t let me talk, he stopped me almost at once, and said: “Poor Marcelle, I am deeply to blame, I loathe myself, but I’ll make it up to her, do you think there’s still time?” — And his eyes were quite red. How he does love you.’

‘Oh Daniel!’ said Marcelle. ‘Oh Daniel... Oh Daniel.’

A silence followed, then Daniel added: ‘He told me he would have a frank talk with you this very evening. We’ll clear it all up — At present, everything is in your hands, Marcelle. He’ll do everything you wish.’

‘Oh Daniel! Oh Daniel!’ she recovered herself a little, and added: ‘You’ve been so good, so... I should like to see you as soon as possible, I have so many things to say, and I can’t talk to you without seeing your face. Can you come tomorrow?’

The voice, when it came, seemed harsher, it had lost its harmonies.

‘Not tomorrow. Of course I’m most anxious to see you... Look here, Marcelle, I’ll ring you up.’

‘All right,’ said Marcelle: ‘ring me up soon. Ah! Daniel, my dear Daniel...’

‘Good-bye, Marcelle,’ said Daniel. ‘Play your cards well this evening.’

‘Daniel!’ she cried. But he had gone. Marcelle put down the receiver, and passed her handkerchief over her damp eyes. ‘The Archangel! He ran away pretty quick, for fear I might thank him.’ She approached the window, and looked at the passers-by: women, street-boys, a few workmen — how happy they looked. A young woman was running down the middle of the street, carrying her child in her arms, talking to him as she ran, gasping and laughing in his face. Marcelle stood watching her, then she approached the mirror, and eyed herself with astonishment. On the wash-basin shelf there were three red roses in a tooth-glass. Marcelle paused, picked out one of them, twirled it diffidently in her fingers, then shut her eyes, and stuck the rose into her black hair. ‘A rose in my hair...’ She opened her eyes, looked in the mirror, patted her hair, and smiled wryly at herself.

‘P
LEASE
wait here, sir,’ said the little man.

Mathieu sat down on a bench. It was a dark waiting-room redolent of cabbage; on his left a glass-panelled door admitted a faint light: a bell rang, and the little man opened it A young woman entered, clad with distressful neatness.

‘Kindly sit down, madam.’

He walked close beside her to the bench, and she sat down, gathering her legs beneath her.

‘I’ve been before,’ said the woman. ‘It’s about a loan.’

‘Yes, madam; certainly.’

The little man was talking right into her face. ‘You are in the Government Service?’

‘No: my husband is.’

She began to rummage in her bag: she was not ill-looking, but she had a harsh and harassed look: the little man was eyeing her greedily. She produced from her bag two or three papers carefully folded; he took them, went up to the glass door to get a better light, and examined them meticulously.

‘Quite all right,’ said he, handing them back to her. ‘Quite all right Two children? You look so young... We so look forward to having them, don’t we? But when they arrive, they rather disorganize the family finances. You are in a little difficulty at the moment?’

The young woman blushed, and the little man rubbed his hands: ‘Well,’ he said genially, ‘we’ll arrange it all, that’s what we’re here for.’

He eyed her for a moment with a pensive, smiling air, and then departed. The young woman threw a hostile look at Mathieu, and began to fidget with the clasp of her bag. Mathieu felt ill at ease; he had come into the company of people who were really poor, and it was their money he was going to take, grey and tarnished money, redolent of cabbage. He bent his head, and looked down at the floor between his feet: again he saw once more the silky, perfumed bank-notes in Lola’s little trunk: it was not the same money.

The glass door opened, and a tall gentleman with white moustaches appeared. He had silver hair, carefully brushed back, Mathieu followed him into his office. The gentleman pointed genially to a rather shabby leather-covered armchair, and they both sat down. The gentleman laid his elbows on the table, and clasped his fine white hands. He wore a dark-green tie, discreetly enlivened by a pearl.

‘You wish to take advantage of our service?’ he asked paternally.

‘Yes.’

He looked at Mathieu: he had rather prominent, light-blue eyes.

‘Monsieur...?’

‘Delarue.’

‘You are aware that the regulations of our Society provide solely for a loan service to Government officials?’

The voice was fine and white, a little fleshy, like the hands.

‘I am a government official,’ said Mathieu. ‘A professor.’

‘Indeed?’ said the gentleman, with interest. ‘We are particularly glad to help university men. You are professor at a Lycée?’

‘Yes. The Buffon.’

‘Good,’ said the gentleman suavely. ‘Well, we will go through the usual little formalities... First, I am going to ask you whether you have about you any evidence of identity — anything will do, passport, army pay-book, or electoral card...’

Mathieu produced his papers. The man took them, and glanced at them abstractedly.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good. And what is the amount you have in mind?’

‘I want six thousand francs,’ said Mathieu. He reflected for a moment, and said: ‘Say seven thousand.’

He was agreeably surprised. And he thought: ‘I wouldn’t have believed it would go through so quickly.’

‘You know our conditions? We lend for six months, absolutely without renewal. We are obliged to ask twenty per cent interest, owing to our heavy expenses, and the considerable risks we run.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ said Mathieu hastily.

The man produced two printed documents from his drawer.

‘Would you be so kind as to fill in these forms? And sign your name at the foot of each.’

It was an application for a loan, in duplicate, with blanks for name, age, occupation, and address. Mathieu began to write.

‘Excellent,’ said the man, glancing over the documents. ‘Born in Paris...in 1905...both parents French...Well, that’s all for the moment. Upon payment of the seven thousand francs, we shall ask you to sign an acknowledgement of the debt on stamped paper. The stamp will be your liability.’

‘Upon payment...? So you can’t let me have the money at once?’

The gentleman seemed very surprised. ‘At once? But my dear sir, we shall need at least a fortnight to make our inquiries.’

‘What inquiries? You have seen my papers...’

The gentleman eyed Mathieu with amused indulgence. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You university men are all alike. All idealists. Please understand, sir, that in this particular case I do not doubt your word. But, speaking generally, what proof have we that the papers shown to us are not false?’ He laughed a rueful little laugh...‘I fear that those who deal in money inevitably become suspicious. Deplorable, I agree; but we have
no right
to trust people. And so you see,’ he concluded, ‘we must conduct our little inquiry: we shall address ourselves directly to your Ministry. Don’t worry: with all due discretion, of course. But you know, between ourselves, what officialdom is like. I much doubt if you can reasonably expect our assistance before July 5th.’

‘That’s no good,’ said Mathieu hoarsely. And he added: ‘I need the money this evening, or tomorrow at the latest, it’s for an urgent matter. Couldn’t it be managed... at a rather higher rate of interest?’

The man seemed scandalized, and lifted his two fine hands. ‘But we are not usurers, my dear sir! Our Society is under the patronage of the Ministry of Public Works. It is, one might almost say, an official organization. We charge a normal rate of interest calculated on a basis of our expenses and our risks, and we could not lend ourselves to any transaction of that kind.’ He added severely: ‘If you were in a hurry, you should have come earlier. Haven’t you read our notices?’

‘No,’ said Mathieu, getting up. ‘It was a sudden call.’

‘Then I regret...’ said the man coldly. ‘Shall I tear up the documents you have just filled in?’

Mathieu thought of Sarah. ‘She will certainly have induced the man to wait.’

‘Don’t tear them up,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange something in the interval.’

‘Good,’ said the man affably. ‘You will surely find a friend who will advance you what you need for a fortnight. This is your permanent address?’ he said, pointing a forefinger at the document. ‘12 Rue Huyghens?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then, at the beginning of July we will send you a reminder.’

He got up, and accompanied Mathieu to the door.

‘Good-bye, sir,’ said Mathieu. ‘Thank you.’

‘Glad to be of any service to you,’ said the gentleman with a bow. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

Mathieu strode rapidly through the waiting-room. The young woman was still there; she was biting her glove with a haggard look.

Outside, greenish flashes quivered in the grey air. But, at the moment, Mathieu had the persistent impression of being caught between four walls. ‘Another set-back,’ he thought. His sole remaining hope was Sarah.

He had reached the Boulevard de Sévastopol: he went into a café, and asked if he could telephone.

‘Telephones at the far end, on the right.’

As he dialled his number, Mathieu murmured: ‘Has she managed it! Oh, has she managed it!’ The words were a kind of prayer.

‘Hullo,’ said he. ‘Hullo, Sarah?’

‘Hullo — yes?’ said a voice. ‘It’s Weymüller.’

‘It’s Mathieu Delarue here,’ said Mathieu. ‘Can I speak to Sarah?’

‘She’s out.’

‘What a nuisance! You don’t know when she’ll be back?’

‘No, I don’t. Do you want to leave a message for her?’

‘No. Just say I telephoned.’

He hung up the receiver and went out. His life no longer depended on himself, it was in the hands of Sarah: there was nothing left for him to do but wait. He hailed a bus, and sat down beside an old woman who was coughing into her handkerchief. ‘Jews always come to terms,’ he thought. ‘He’ll agree — he’ll certainly agree.’

‘Denfert-Rochereau?’

‘Three tickets,’ said the conductor.

Mathieu took the three tickets, and sat looking out of the window: he thought with gloomy bitterness of Marcelle. The windows shook, the old woman coughed, the flowers danced on her black straw hat. The hat, the flowers, the old woman, Mathieu — all were carried onwards in the huge machine. The old woman did not lift her nose from her handkerchief, she coughed at the corner of the Rue aux Ours and the Boulevard de Sébastopol, she coughed along the Réaumur, she coughed in the Rue Montorgueil, she coughed on the Pont-Neuf, above the grey, calm waters. ‘And if the Jew won’t agree?’ But even this thought couldn’t arouse him from his lethargy; he was no more than a sack upon other sacks, at the bottom of a lorry. ‘Well, that would finish it, I would tell her this evening that I would marry her.’ The bus — huge, infantile machine — had carried him off, it swung him to the right and left, shook him, bumped him — events bumped him against the back of the seat and up against the window, the speed of his life had dimmed his senses, and he thought: ‘My life is no longer mine, my life is just a destiny.’ He watched the heavy, dark buildings of the Rue des Saints-Pères leap up one by one into the sky, he watched his life go past. Marry or not marry — ‘It doesn’t concern me now, it’s heads or tails.’

The brake was suddenly slammed down and the bus stopped. Mathieu stiffened, and threw an agonized look at the driver’s back: all his freedom had come back on him once more. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘no, it isn’t heads or tails. Whatever happens, it is
by my agency
that everything must happen.’ Even if he let himself be carried off, in helplessness and in despair, even if he let himself be carried off like an old sack of coal, he would have chosen his own damnation: he was free, free in every way, free to behave like a fool or a machine, free to accept, free to refuse, free to equivocate: to marry, to give up the game, to drag this dead weight about with him for years to come. He could do what he liked, no one had the right to advise him, there would be for him no Good nor Evil unless he brought them into being. All around him things were gathered in a circle, expectant, impassive, and indicative of nothing. He was alone, enveloped in this monstrous silence, free and alone, without assistance and without excuse, condemned to decide without support from any quarter, condemned for ever to be free.